


Something, Something

by Honeymull



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeymull/pseuds/Honeymull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like it's a constant thing, of course. That'd be absurd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something, Something

It's not like it's a constant thing, of course. That'd be absurd. He likes guys and all the things that come along with that, likes cocks and big hands and the sleek cut of hipbones. But it's not something that crosses his mind every second of the day. He likes his job, too, likes his sport and making a living and having fun without thinking about sex.

Coming to New York, however, is a game-changer. He's used to playing with some attractive guys, so it's not the abstract appeal of a pretty face or a strong body that makes things different. He should be able to remove himself from all of this, but -

But for some reason - and he wishes more than anything he could figure it out so he can _stop_ all of this – there's something about the goalie here that drives him to distraction.

Okay, that's unfair. Mats knows _why_ Hank is so distracting; he'd be an idiot not to. Everybody can see that Hank's attractive. More than, really. He's fucking gorgeous, intense and fluid on the ice and then all dry and easy grins and casual affection off of it.

The problem comes in when Mats can't speak to him without wanting to drop to his knees and press his face up against the zipper of Hank's jeans until he can feel Hank's cock going hard under his cheek. The problem is that every time Hank so much as favors him with an idle glance, much less looks at him directly, Mats goes hot all over and has to swallow against the rush of saliva that follows. It's getting obsessive, and Mats' jerk-off sessions are becoming centered more and more around how Mats imagines it would feel to have Hank's cock in his mouth.

It's so incredibly inappropriate, but it doesn't quite affect his play. If it did...he doesn't even want to think about that. He has no idea what he'd do, but that would push it over the line, and he can't imagine the fallout. As it is, it just makes the locker room a little bit more awkward, makes any interaction he has with Hank necessarily stilted. Mats tries to keep those short. He can barely hold his side of the conversation when all his concentration is dedicated to not blurting out how much he wants to taste it, lick it up, when Hank shoots all over his tongue, down his throat or over his lips and cheeks and neck. He keeps his head down, mutters what answers he has to, and hurries away to bother Brandon.

+

A few weeks into the preseason, Ryan gets him alone after they leave practice one day, walking to their respective cars on the other side of the parking garage.

Mats had a feeling something like this would be coming, but when Ryan asks, “So. What's up with you and Hank?”, his brain freezes.

He chews on a nail to buy a second or two, and when his mind remains stubbornly uncreative, he lies. “I don't know. Just don't click?”

Ryan keeps walking, but snorts like that's the funniest thing he's ever heard. “Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's not it.” He waves a hand at someone in a sliver Audi as it peels into their level. Mats doesn't catch who's driving, but it's gone in the next minute. He stays silent until he can't even hear the rumble of its engine echoing in the garage anymore.

Mats knows Ryan's sneaking looks at him a few more times as they walk, but he just shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and hunches against the October air. It's getting chilly, just verging on the cold of winter, and he can feel the sweat from practice cooling under his collar. His keys are still insulated and warm inside the wool pockets when he rummages for them, though, and he clicks the unlock button for his car. It beeps loudly in the empty garage, and Ryan stops a few cars ahead of Mats' at his own.

“You know, you could just talk to him about whatever it is.” Ryan runs a hand over the top of his car, smooth shiny metal gleaming under the yellow lights. He taps his fingers against it when Mats doesn't answer, a few light, hollow thunks, and then hums, “All right, then. 'Night.”

Mats waits until Ryan's pulling out of his space and tossing him a little two-fingered wave before he loosens his death grip on his own car door.

+

He doesn't end up talking to Hank. Of course he doesn't. He ends up talking to everybody _but_ Hank, because that's how he lives and works – he chatters away at his teammates and bounces off each reaction he gets with a grin and even more words.

He learns that Dan is nearly imperturbable; he'll sit there and nod along to whatever inane babble Mats has going, for a _long-ass time_. Mats is pretty sure he just tunes him out to stare at Cally, since, well, it's Cally, and it's Dan and Mats isn't fucking blind

Brandon laughs in his face and insults his mother, and Nicky merely stares it him until he trails off, gives up.

Sean just shoots the shit, wry and dry, right back at him, unless he's in one of his little moods, in which case he tends to teach Mats some new expletives in English. As long as he's quick on his feet to dodge Sean's temper, it's really quite fun.

Hank still tries to talk to him sometimes. Not as much as he used to. Mats knows he's being obvious when his conversation stutters to a stop and his chatter becomes short, bitten off responses. He's gotten some raised eyebrows around the locker room for it, and he feels bad about it. He does.

He just knows that the alternative would get far more than some raised eyebrows and mistaken assumptions.

Right now, he's in the middle of pulling off his gear, post-practice, bouncing up on his toes and regaling Rozy with a play-by-play of one of his games against France. It's a good story, too, complete with sweeping hand motions and maybe just the very tiniest of exaggerations on how he single-handedly took on the French defense to score this one fantastic goal, right through their goalie's five hole and -

Rozy's gaze cuts to over Mats' shoulder and his grin widens. He interrupts Mats mid-story. “Henke! Henke, come save me. He won't shut up. On and on and on. No more.” He slides a glance at Mats, eyes smiling to soften it, but he backs up and away all the same once Hank trudges up to them.

Mats worries the edge of his bottom lip between his teeth and laughs a little, a nervous flush already rising up under his skin. He makes as if to sidestep Hank. “Should go, too -”

Hank blocks him, slides himself easily into Mats' intended path and pins him with a look. “Maybe not.”

Mats finds himself way too close to Hank with that move, now, and steps back hurriedly. His breath comes a little faster, already. Jesus, that's pathetic, but Hank's not two steps away, and oh god, moving forward until Mats trips a little bit against the benches behind him in his rush to recreate some semblance of personal space between them again.

Hank frowns and stops. “Hey. What - calm down.”

Mats looks up at him, knows his eyes are big and wary and maybe a little heated, because even now he can't help the quick, anxious swipe of his tongue over his lips. Hank zeroes in on that, watches as Mats does it again, unconsciously, not even thinking about it. He can see a light sheen of sweat across Hank's collarbone, brightening the tan skin of his throat before it disappears into his shirt. It's right at eye-level; he can't help looking at it.

Hank ducks his head, though, deliberately trying to meet Mats' eyes, and Mats has to blink a few times to bring him into focus. He may have zoned out for a few seconds. Fuck. “Hey. Hey, you're okay, right?”

“M'fine, yeah. Yeah. Just – should get, ah,...get going.” Mats hedges, an entirely unconvincing answer. He shifts right and left, balancing lightly on the sides of each foot in turn. It's a nervous habit and a tell, but he can't stop himself. He's all anxious movement, trying to concentrate on anything but the sight and smell of Hank standing so close. If he wanted to, he could reach out and put his palm flat against Hank's belly through his shirt; this close, he'd be easily able to hear every catch of breath that brought out of Hank.

And this close, he'd be able to drop to his knees and push his face into the crotch of Hank's jeans and breathe the smell of him right in, maybe even taste him a little through the denim if he teased enough, got Hank leaking through his pants. He feels his knees go weak, thinks how easily he could just fold up and fall face-first against the line of Hank's cock, nose up under it to get his mouth around his balls, too, learn their shape. So close, right _there_.

Mats comes back to himself abruptly, eyes widening as he realizes he's been staring slack-jawed, eyes distant, at the shift of muscles in Hank's abdomen, that Hank _was_ speaking and has since fallen obviously, noticeably, tellingly silent.

He doesn't want to look up, but he does. Hank's giving him the most curious look, puzzling it out, and Mats can almost hear the conclusion finally click into place. Hank's eyes go _wide_ , wide open, and Mats closes his eyes, makes a near-silent whimper because fuck, fuck it's all out there, he knows it is, Hank's not stupid.

Aaron chooses that moment to walk into the locker room, hollering out the lyrics to a Wu Tang Clan song at the top of his lungs. He pauses when he sees them , then breaks out in a grin. “Hey! You two are talking! Awesome. Good fuck, it took you long enough.” He gives them a two-handed thumbs-up and picks up bellowing the rest of the song where he left off.

Someone yells at him to shut up from the hallway. Mats uses the distraction to slip around Hank and dart out the door.

+

He gets about three hallways away before Hank catches up with him.

He hears him coming and pretends he doesn't, keeps hurrying down the empty white corridor, keeps his eyes on the stark, bleached tiles of the wall, and knows he's going to have to face him in a moment when Hank catches up. He's fast on the ice, but Hank's long legs are no match for him when they're off their skates.

What he doesn't expect is for Hank to actually grab him, one big hand covering the ball of his shoulder from behind and turning Mats around by force. It's not painful, not at all, but it still sends shockwaves through Mats' system.

Hank's _touching_ him, manhandling him around until he's facing Hank directly. And he's leaving his hand on Mats' shoulder, flexing his fingers against the thick muscle spanning the space between Mats' neck and arm.

Mats can't speak, couldn't if he tried, but Hank doesn't say anything, just looks at him. It's the same look he'd had right before Aaron barged in, still a little questioning but mostly just – heavy. Mats doesn't know the word in English, but Hank's eyes are definitely weighted, lids at half-mast, getting darker the longer he looks down at Mats, who can't seem to do anything but gaze back up at him like a rabbit caught in headlights.

Even so, Mats makes a valiant attempt at a casual speaking voice. "Hi." It fails miserably, the single syllable coming out hoarse and strained, and he fidgets, rolling the shoulder Hank's still resting his hand on.

Hank tightens his grip in response and leans in the space between them created by their height difference. “”Something you'd like to tell me, Zucca?” His posture is as tense as it gets when he's tracking a puck coming in fast on an unopposed stick. He's poised and ready for anything, and his lines are taut with potential movement. Mats has seen him do this before, this off-ice translation of sensing all possible angles to a situation, and it never fails to raise the hair on the back of his neck.

Mats abruptly feels defensive, a hot flush rising from his throat to his cheeks. He's not sure how much of it is a misplaced anger at being found out, or anxiety at the repercussions of _being_ found out, or – or something else.

Because Hank's not moving away, and he's still touching Mats, cupping the curve of his shoulder and spreading his fingers in a cradle across the nape of his neck where Mats hair curls against the skin. It's confusing, messes with Mats' mind, and he wonders, briefly, if this is just one hell of a dream or if he's finally cracked and his brain is interpreting wishful thinking all wrong, wrong, wrong.

That scares him, plain and simple, and so he answers Hank's question with a firm, “Nothing to tell.”

It's forced out with fake confidence, even a bit of joviality. He tilts his chin up stubbornly, sticking with the lie.

Hank murmurs something in Swedish, and it's too quiet for Mats to catch. His eyebrows twitch down, warily inquisitive, and Hank repeats himself louder. “Said, I _don't believe you_.”

It's not what Mats wants to hear. He's spent – god, so much time trying to cover this up, and it sucks, it really, really sucks to have to fake being an asshole just to bury it down and make sure it doesn't fuck with anything outside of the rampant run of thoughts inside Mats' head. It's too much, and he just – he needs this to not happen right now. He needs it to not happen at all.

He slumps into the wall behind him as the weight of keeping it all inside himself barrels into him and just as suddenly, sweeps right out again. He feels Hank shift in surprise and adjust his grip on Mats' neck; he softens it and braces Mats back up at the same time.

Mats doesn't look at Hank when he mutters, “ _Have_ to believe me.” It's palpably defeated and unconvincing, and Mats can't drum up the wherewithal to care right now.

Hank's mouth twists to one side, that furrow between his eyes appearing again, and he draws back minutely. Mats can feel his gaze in the silence but keeps looking at his shoes. His laces are frayed, the black knots ragged at the edges.

The deep buzz of some kind of machinery several floors below them rolls up under the tile of the hallway in a basso background hum. Besides that, it's quiet.

“Come on, then.” Hank's voice is hoarse and thick with accent when it finally breaks the silence. His actual words don't even register for a moment, but his hands tuck firmly into Mats' hair, the touch just this side of demanding. It's expectant but not harsh, and Mats responds instinctively, raising his head as Hank's fingers press into the back of his neck.

Hank's chest is moving fast when Mats look at him, like he's just as breathless as Mats is with nerves.

Mats won't lie and say anticipation doesn't enter into how his breathing speeds up automatically to match Hank's, though. He's still not sure what – if -

His eyes flicker without voluntary thought as Hank's fingers in his hair tighten. His nails dig into Mats' skull; he can feel each one, neat, blunt, probably manicured.

Despite the harshness of his grip on Mats, his voice is soft when he sways in to breathe across the shell of Mats' ear. He turns his head, noses across Mats' temple. “No more waiting.”

Mats' shudders hard and gives it up. His eyes roll up in his head, his knees buckle, and he's hitting the ground before he manages to talk himself out of it.

Hank makes a small noise when Mats simply leans in with no finesse, pushes his face into the crease of Hank's thigh. He can _smell_ him, god, just like he'd thought, and it's enough to make Mats' hips work a little against the air, a tiny thrust that does nothing, before he's even gotten to skin. It would be embarrassing but for the way Hank's fingers come up to thread lightly in Mats' hair again. They aren't pressuring him to go in any direction; they just rest in the curls over Mats' ear and at the nape of his neck.

Grounding him or Hank, Mats' isn't sure which.

He's hyper aware as he gives himself over to this, finally, _finally_ , god, it's so good, how is it so good when he hasn't even started? He intends to enjoy it, every second, because somewhere in his mind he still can't believe this is happening.

His hands scrabble on Hank's thighs, not trying for anything, just wanting to claim a little purchase. A broken fingernail on the pinky of his right hand catches painfully at one spot of the rough denim of Hank's jeans but he doesn't even care. He's too busy opening his mouth over the spot five inches to the left, the hot bulge of fabric where Hank's cock pushes at his zipper.

Mats' mouth is watering, and he gives as much of the trapped length as he can a wet, messy suck, mouth open. Hank gasps above him, hips working minutely as Mats stains his pants with spit, tonguing the length of the zipper, too. That's a colder tang in his mouth, there, and Mats doesn't like the taste. He knocks his forehead against Hank's belly, tries to get his hands up clumsily to do away with the zipper, get inside Hank's pants, but his fingers slip in his haste and his cheeks burn when he can't get it, pressed in at strange, too-close angles

Hank huffs out something too urgent to be a laugh and then one of his hands is there, tanned, nimble fingers in front of Mats' face drawing down his zipper for Mats and shoving at his jeans one side at a time, too hurried to do more than leave the fabric slouched low on his hips.

Mats still has boxer-briefs to deal with, gray and obviously designer quality (of course, he thinks, in some hysterical still-functioning part of his brain). He licks a stripe across these, too, then moves lower, ducks his head under to mouth at the fabric covering the underside of Hank's cock. It tastes like hot cotton and smells like Hank and it's still not enough, not nearly enough.

He feels frantic, manages to get these, at least, wrangled down to pool lightly against the bunched fabric of Hank's jeans still at mid-thigh.

As it turns out, the breaking point of Mat's sanity is apparently when he finally has Hank's cock two inches away and he can't move. His spine goes liquid and his head rolls back on his neck as he groans, embarrassingly high. He knows he's digging his nails into the meat of Hank's thigh, but this is an overload in so many ways and he just – he needs a moment.

The next moment, Hank rumbles something Mats doesn't hear, because Hank is grabbing the scruff of his neck and making Mats' move _for_ him, guiding him in and slipping a few fingers down to Mats' jaw, tipping into his mouth, pulling down his bottom lip and thumbing it closed around the head of his cock.

Mats almost comes. He shudders hard, twice, eyes screwed shut, frantically shoves a palm down over his own crotch to hold himself, hold it _back_ , not yet. His own dick hurts, it's so hard, and still trapped in his pants. It' feels swollen and full, and his stuttering heartbeat beats in it against the inside of his own zipper.

This doesn't come near what he's been thinking about since showing up in New York. Hank is making low, rough sounds and working his fingers into Mats hair, tangling it around his knuckles and pulling at it without meaning to. The sting of it makes Mats shake even as he swallows, licks his own spit off Hank's cock.

It's not even a very _good_ blow-job by most standards. Mats is way too eager, slurping and sucking with no grace, just a needy, slutty enthusiasm that Hank has yet to have a problem with.

Hank's hips start jerking, soon enough, and Mats has to press hard on his own dick when Hank holds his jaw still, cautiously tries fucking Mats' face for a few thrusts.

The careful consideration is nice, of course, but Hank seems to think this is crossing a line, or entering some kind of irrational gray area when Mats is _already on his knees_. This isn't a game-changer, and suddenly it's important that Hank knows that.

This is something Mats can do. It's something he _wants_.

It's a simple enough message to deliver. He lets his neck go loose, feels his mind enter that smooth, expectant place it goes whenever he gives himself over like this, then tips his head back and opens his mouth, hot and wet and waiting.

Hank pauses for an incredulous second before growling Mats' name helplessly and shoving in. He tries to keep it gentle, Mats can tell, but the first time that he goes too far and the head of his cock bumps the back of Mats' throat, that's it. That's _it_ , the feeling of Mats' own mouth wrapped around so much of Hank's cock, spit mixing in with precome and sliding down Mats' _throat_ now, Hank's in so far -

Mats whimpers, eyelashes fluttering with the force of it, and comes in his pants, shooting into his underwear on his knees in a back rink hallway with Hank's cock still hard and wet in his mouth.

Hank stops again to look down at where Mats is breathing out harshly through his nose, dazed and hazy and feeling high with post-orgasm endorphins. He's wide-eyed, nostrils flaring slightly as if he can smell the mess Mats just made of himself, and Mats gives him a half-sheepish, half-smug smirk from under his lashes. He can't help it, tilts his chin up in a familiar gesture – and slides most of the way off Hank's cock as he does so. He lets the head rest on his bottom lip as his body trembles through the last of its aftershocks.

“Jesus _christ_ , Zucca,” Hank breathes, right before Mats recovers enough to swipe the flat of his tongue once, twice, along the head, wrapping it lewdly around the flare of the ridge and finishing with a kitten-lick to the very tip where precome wells and drips. He curls his tongue up at the end, gathering it from the slit.

That in itself is enough to make Hank's eyes go glazed and narrow, hips barely held in control as he fights not to shove back into Mat's mouth. Not that he'd be unwilling, of course, but instead of obliging Hank, Mats draws back slightly and touches the tip of his tongue to his lips, spreads the drops of precome he'd caught across them, and listens to Hank groan in surprise, louder than is probably wise.

There's no more waiting then as Hank palms Mats' cheek and jaw, guides himself back in for two surprisingly smooth thrusts against the flat of Mats' tongue before he stutters, body locking up and one knee almost giving out as he comes in Mats' mouth. It drips down his throat and behind his teeth, gets on his lips and chin, and the next second Hank's hauling him up, likely leaving bruises on Mats' upper arm and shoulder, but Mats doesn't care, can't possibly care.

There's a moment of humor in Hank's face when Mats gets his legs under him, and then he's leaning in and licking up Mats' chin, over his bottom lip and curling his tongue around the come he just shot all over Mats' face. It mimics the motion that Mats used to make Hank lose it just a few minutes ago, and it's weirdly playful enough that Mats feels himself wanting to grin. He's slap-happy, he tells himself, stupid and irrational with endorphins and the stoner-glaze of sex, but Hank's not moving away, and as soon as he sees Mats start to smile, he smooths a finger across the curve of it, thoughtful.

Mats kicks at his ankle a few beats later when he doesn't budge aside from that, though. “Gonna move?” he says, with a voice that sounds shockingly hoarse and used.

Hank loses the thoughtful look to give him an exasperated one, stepping in closer instead of letting Mats go. “Maybe not,” he returns mildly, straight-faced but apparently amused.

Mats grins, and lets the wall take his weight again.


End file.
